Snerkology
snerk (n): An utterance which suggests amusement/disgust/derision/disbelief.

Category: insomnia

Weirdness and Fun in General

- PRODUCT ENDORSEMENT: Ladies, I am completely serious. Go buy these jeans. They are totally flattering, and the most comfortable things I’ve ever wiggled my ass into. (Readers now go into a veritable free-for-all of snarky fresh comments, the Internet implodes upon itself, mass mayhem ensues, cats and dogs begin sleeping together…)

- Last night, Bill and I went to bed. As often happens when we go to bed, we goof around for a good fifteen or twenty minutes before actually settling down to sleep. By “goof around”, I don’t mean FOOL around. I mean GOOF. Wrestle. Giggle. Tickle. Poke. And some grosser things that I won’t get specific about. I shriek, he laughs. I slug his arm, he pins me to my pillow. I try to roll him off me, he rolls onto me harder. I push his pillows off the bed, me makes me EAT my pillows. All in the dark, all very slumber party-ish. A certain extra element of hilarity was added last night, when I mentioned, “Wouldn’t it be HYSTERICAL if I set up the video camera and all it recorded was darkness, except for all the NOISE we’re making while we’re fucking around like this?” Then we started giggling. Then we started wondering how some of the noises would be interpreted, and we laughed harder. Then we considered all the definitions we’d have to provide to you, the general public, and cracked up. For instance, do you know the meaning of “Wish You Could Breathe But Can’t”? Do you know what it means to be threatened by the “Polar Bear”, or the “Walrus”, or the “Titanic”? Do you know what a “vwop” is? Do you understand the dread anticipation that follows the words, “Okay, now…” uttered by my husband, and causes me to holler, “NO OKAY NOW!” back at him? Can you even comprehend what I could possibly mean when I shriek at the very tippy-top of my lungs, “STOP PUCKERING ON MY LEG!”? Perhaps, my gentle snowflakes, you are better off not knowing.

- Bill and I almost fought over the terms “Slug Bug” versus “Punch Buggy”. Which vernacular do you use? Argue the merits of one term over the other. Analyze and elucidate the wrongness of the use of the incorrect term. Discuss.

- Last night I dreamed that nobody showed up for Joss’ benefit party. I woke up in a full-blown panic attack, complete with a gut that was on FIRE as if there were hellish little Oompa Loompas who had built a campfire in my innards and were happily toasting marshmallows while alternately poking at my stomach wall with their sharp, pointy, fire-heated sticks. The fuckers. I tossed and turned for the better part of an hour, and when I finally fell asleep I was stuck in a nightmare in which Bill was bitten by a zombie and was slowly turning into one and there was nothing I could do about it except either kill him or join him. Interpret. Analyze. Discuss.

Up.

It’s 3:00 in the morning. I woke up a half-hour ago. I thought I was gently tossing and turning, but I guess in Calvin’s Bill’s sleep-absorbed mind I was jumping up and down on the bed. I got several “Uuuunnnggg!”‘s from him, so I decided to give up the ghost and just go out to the living room. He has to work tomorrow, after all, and I do not.

(Aside: I’m going to amuse myself with keeping track of how many times I automatically type “Calvin” instead of “Bill”. Nine years of this is going to be difficult to break, I suspect.)

It’s cold in here right now. Google’s weather widget says it’s fifty degrees outside, though I’m not going to open the back door and turn on the light to check the thermometer on the patio. Our suburban area is often times a good five degrees cooler than Phoenix itself, which is what I believe the weather widget is based on. Fortunately I did a load of throws and afghans, so I grabbed one from the dryer just now and I am currently curled up on the couch. Ozzy is rather put out that I have the laptop on my lap, when HE could be on my lap. He’s purring like you read about, but alternates between marching in place with his front paws on my hip bone (ow, cat) or standing on the edge of my lap desk and sticking his nose in my ear. Yeah, he’s not fooling me. He’s pretending to be affectionate because he’s cold. It is always thus, in wintertime. Zoe will probably make an appearance soon – she chirped at me from her position at the foot of the bed when I got up, but seemed disinclined to leave the warmth of Calvin’s feet at the time. That will change as soon as she figures out I haven’t just gotten up to go pee or something.

A thought just crossed my mind. See, with as much as I write EVERY SINGLE DAY, for some reason I’m still stuck in the mindset that unless one has a published series of books on the shelf, and makes their primary living putting the written word down on paper, one is not actually a writer. It comes from the definition that I held as a child, I guess, when I used to write stories in my Mead notebook and dream of being an author “some day”. That daydreamed visualization of sitting at a typewriter, reams of paper scattered at my feet, tearing my hair out while searching for an exact phrase, stressing about plots and deadlines and manuscripts. YET. I have pudding-proof that I am wrong in that narrow definition, beyond the fact that the sheer number of my words that exist on the internet (many of them that I actually get PAID for) is ASTOUNDING. My proof is this: the first thing I did when I got up in the middle of the night was start this entry. I didn’t pick up a book, didn’t turn on the TV, didn’t make a cup of tea or do any of the other myriad of things that are in an insomniac’s arsenal. No, I started writing.

When your automatic inclination, when you have some spare time, is to start typing or scribbling away, you’re a writer. Doesn’t matter if you never share your writing with another living soul. Doesn’t matter if it’s poetry or fiction or journaling. When you just HAVE TO write because it’s such a deep set part of you that the thought of writing rather than SLEEPING doesn’t bother you in the slightest, you’re a writer.

That is my deep ponderance for this episode of Insomniac Theater. I am off to surf Hulu and perhaps have a cookie and some tea. I shall leave you with this, which I dedicate to Heather.

4:30

1iconcalvinkissgirlhandIt’s 4:30 in the morning and I’ve been up for an hour. I’m now on the couch in the living room, drinking too-weak tea (I didn’t let it steep long enough – I was cold and wanted to get under the blanket), with Zoe at my side. Oz just jumped up a minute ago to say hi, got in Zoe’s bubble space to do so, and she didn’t hiss.

That, my friends, is progress.

I only got a few hours of sleep – Calvin and I went to bed at about 10:30, but then lay there talking and giggling like teenagers for another hour before we finally fell asleep. It’s a wonderful, glorious thing to fall asleep while laughing.

We’d been talking about our ex’s, and how Calvin still has unanswered questions and would like to be able to get the real truth out of his ex’s head. He said he kind of wished she had a blog like I have, so that he could read what was really going on in her head. We had the following exchange:

Laura – “So, would you like her to have written a whole saga like I did?”
Calvin – “Well, yeah. I think it would have been… I don’t know…”
Laura – “Cathartic?”
Calvin – “Well, I was thinking more like, you know, medicinal.”
Laura – :: blink ::

Heh. You know he says things like this on purpose, don’t you, just so I have things to write about?

Prior to turning out the lights, Calvin had spent a good half-hour scouring the internet for a replacement starfish necklace. He couldn’t find the exact place we went to on-line, so he said, “Oh well, we’ll just have to go back! Darn!”

I love that man.

———-

This song is stuck in my head, and has been for a week. It’s on Rock Band 2, and I have to say that vocally, I TOTALLY KICK THIS SONG’S ASS. Which is saying a lot, because the difficulty meter is pegged on this one. (Also, Calvin is awesome on the guitar. Must give him his props.)

Other songs I kick ass on: Faith No More’s “Epic”, Fallout Boy’s “Arms Race”, and Boston’s “More Than A Feeling.” Songs I don’t kick ass on: any Judas Priest. Just can’t get my voice wrapped around ‘em.

———-

Hah, now to change the musical mood ENTIRELY. PBS is running their regular funds drive right now, and they had on the “Yanni – Voices” special last night. Calvin and I are big fans of Yanni, and I LOVE what I’ve seen and heard from this project so far. He took his existing instrumental songs and added lyrics to them, then got these four VERY talented young singers to accompany. He’s touring next year and you can REST ASSURED we will be hooking ourselves up with tickets.

Just LISTEN to this tenor, Nathan Pacheco. I LOVE TENORS.

What this video doesn’t show is the pure joy that is evident on this man’s face as he sings.

Le sigh.

He also does a very lovely duet with another member of their quartet, Chloe:

———–

Okay, I’m going to go surf the web for the next hour and a half, before I have to start getting ready for work. I foresee a nap in my future. I’m a bit psychic, you know.

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